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I am a married straight male, who has never been with a man, but lately all I can think about is cock and cumm uk. My favorite fantasy: Its my birthday the wife and I are out of town and staying in a hotel suite. After a night of drinking (she likes to talk dirty and … Read moremarried str8 #1 fantasy

In college my wife was hired to go to this man’s place twice a week to do general cleaning and cook him dinner. Her third week on the job she started tending to his 8 inch, thicker then my wrist cock. Almost a year after she started working for him is when we met and … Read morethicker then my wrist cock.

I really am old. 87 in fact. I live by myself and have met another old chap who lives in a flat upstairs. He came round for tea today and we were laughing about not being able to get much of a hard on.

I said about your website and he wanted to have a look at it. I logged on and we were looking at the fat old cocks when I looked down and he was stroking what seemed to be a fair bulge in his pants. That was it and we soon had both our cocks in our hands while we looked at your great galleries. I’m typing this with one hand and we are both wanking each other. I’m going to shoot my load in a moment and I don’t think he’s far off. I have an idea we will be doing a lot more of this so you see it’s never too late. old wankers(Knockers)

Phallic Worship in Ireland, It has been asserted that Cromcruach, the principal deity of the ancient Irish, was a phallic god, but I can find no conclusive or even substantial evidence as to Whether or not phallicism reached a greater degree of ecumenity, and was prosecuted with more realism in Ireland than in England and Scotland, it is a fact that there existed, at any rate until comparatively recently, a greater and more striking volume of evidence of its practice in the shape of actual sculptural and other representations of the cult.

Up to the close of the eighteenth century there were to be observed in all parts of the country, and particularly in the places of worship, phallic pillars, signs, carvings and sculptures of the most flagrant description. Hannay truly says : ” As in the case of the Greek coins and Nismes sculptures, these sculptured nudities, placed so prominently on the churches, were not the mere impulse of a private citizen in erotic moments; they were the symbolism of a cult, and a belief expressed deliberately by the Church authorities or magistrates. Had such ideas not been held and respected by a large part of the population they would never have been allowed to be exposed in such a public position. 1 On the island of Innis Murra, off the coast of Sligo, is one such phallic monument. It consists of an erect pillar, surrounded by a stone wall. The island itself has been held sacred from the times of paganism until the beginning of the nineteenth century. 2 The Earl of Roden refers to a stone on the island of Inniskea, off the coast of Mayo, which is ” wrapped up in flannel and adored as a god.” 3

The figure illustrated (see plate xxn) is of a pillarstone standing on the Hill of Tara. It was removed from a place with the significant name of Bel-Pear. ” I believe,” says Keane, ” it to be identical with Baal-Pehor of the Scriptures, which, like the Priapus, Muidhr and Mahody, was the emblem of the sun as the source of generative life.” 1 Another somewhat similar stone, called “Cloich Greine,” which means literally “the stone of the sun,” was found at Innis-Maidhr, County Sligo 2 (see plate xxn); and there is yet another phallic pillar at Arghabulloge, County Cork: it is known asSt. Apropos of the phallic figures found in Irish churches, the anonymous author 4 of the ” Essay on the Worship of the Generative Powers during the Middle Ages of Europe,” appended to the 1865 edition of Payne Knight’s Discourse on the Worship of Priapus, says : It is a singular fact that in Ireland it was the female organ which was shown in the position of protector upon the churches, and the elaborate though rude manner in which these figures were sculptured, show that they were considered as objects of great importance. They represented a female exposing herself to view in the most unequivocal manner, and are carved on a block which appears to have served as the keystone to the arch of the doorway of the church, where they were presented to the gaze of all who entered. They appear to have been found principally in the very old churches, and have been mostly taken down, so that they are only found among the ruins. People have given them the name of Shelah-na-Gig, which, we are told, means in Irish, Julian the Giddy, and is simply a term for an immodest woman; but it is well understood that they were intended as protecting charms against the fascina- tion of the evil eye. We have given copies of all the examples yet known in our illustrations of Shelah-na-Gigs (Series I and II). The first of these was found in an old church at Rochestown in the county of Tipperary, where it had long been known among the people of the neighbourhood by the name given above. It was placed in the arch over the doorway, but has since been taken away. Our second example of the Shelah-na-Gig was taken from an old church lately pulled down in the County Cavan, and is now preserved in the museum of the Society of Antiquaries of Dublin. The next, which is also now preserved in the Dublin museum, was taken from the old church on the White Island in Lough Erne, County Fermanagh. This church is supposed by the Irish Antiquaries to be a structure of very great antiquity, for some of them would carry its date as far back as the seventh century, but this is probably an exaggeration. The one which follows was furnished by an old church pulled down by order of the ecclesiastical commissioners, and it was presented to the museum at Dublin by the late Dean Dawson. Our last example was formerly in the possession of Sir Benjamin Chapman, Bart., of Killoa Castle, Westmeath, and is now in a private collection in London. It was found in 1859 at Chloran, in a field on Sir Benjamin’s estate known by the name of the Old Town, from whence stones had been removed at previous periods, though there are now very small remains of building.

This stone was found at a depth of about five feet from the surface, which shows that the buildings, a church no doubt, must have fallen into ruin a long time ago. Contiguous to this field, and at a distance of about two hundred yards from the spot where the Shelah-na-Gig was found, there is an abandoned churchyard, separated from the Old Town field only by a loose stone wall.”

Brash refers to a Shelah-na-Gig over a doorway of Kilnaboy church. The same authority mentions similar carvings on the doorway of the old church of White Island in Lough Erne, and over a window in Ballyvourney church. ” Many others,” he says, ” are known to exist.” 1 The majority are defaced or mutilated in some way, but there is a perfect specimen, showing a Shelah-na-Gig ” struggling with two dragons, on the ornate and possibly eleventh-century sill at Rath Blathmaic church.” 2 The holed stones of Ireland were as famous as those of Cornwall and of India. There were many such for the finding, and they were all held in the greatest veneration. One stone, called Cloch Deglain, on the strand of Ardmore Bay, County Waterford, was visited by afflicted men and women who had sufficient strength to creep through the aperture. They came from all parts of the country, and there was scarcely a distemper for which creeping through the holed-stone was not considered to provide a certain and quick cure. 3 O’Brien, in referring to this old method of seeking regeneration, which is representative of the act of issuing from the womb, terms these holes in the rocks, Devil’s Yonies (Cunni Diaboli). 1 Brash is of opinion that the superstition in England, Scotland and Ireland, as in India, was of phallic origin and significance. He says: “In Ireland ample evidences are not wanting to show that phallic dogmas and rites were very extensively known and practised in ancient times. It is patent in the existing folk-lore of the country, in some everyday customs of the peasantry, and in the remains of midnight plays and ceremonies practised still in remote districts at wakes and such-like occasions.” 2 He adds that the triangular shape and the peculiar arrangement of the stones at various places also are not without their significance.

From : Phallic worship [electronic resource] : a history of sex and sex rites in relation to the religions of all races from antiquity to the present day” BY GEORGE RYLEY SCOTT. It was privately published in London in 1941. The sale of the book was restricted to members of the Medical and Legal Professions, Anthropologists, Psychologists, Sociologists, Ethnologists, and Students of Comparative Religion. It was a limited edition of 755 signed and numbered copies. You can read it at https://archive.org/details/B20442737. George Ryley Scott (1886 – c. 1980) was a prolific British author of books about sexual intercourse, active from the late 1920s to the 1970s.

The King of Ireland, Conor Anthony McGregor is an Irish mixed martial artist world champion fighter. The sexy Irishman doesn’t believe in having all that pent-up sexual energy before a fight. “That is most certainly a superstition that I do not abide by,” Conor McGregor said on a TV show while promoting his upcoming featherweight championship match. “I definitely have as much sex as possible.” No pent-up sexual frustration to be seen here, nope. He must have been still “at it” at this pre-fight weigh in. As you can clearly see in the video BELOW his pictures above his penis is semi-erect.

For 7 months, I had a hook-up with a hot minister’s wife who was totally obsessed with my large thick circumsized penis! We’d have almost daily clandestine meetings in her car. She’d pick me up at my office, and just fuck’n drive us to any random quiet place, like a back alley carport behind an … Read moreobsessed with my large thick circumcised penis

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A secret accord
a gentleman’s agreement was worked out between
my mouth and the cock of an 18 year old fisherman although
it is stilled tucked away in his blue shorts.
Time air and the landscape around him
Were dimming stretched out on the sand
But I could detect between his limbs
The spread limbs of his legs was shuddering
The sand retained his footprints but registered the
Heft and weight of a penis excited by
The troubling evening heat
Every grain go lighter

– What’s your name?

– And yours?

Since that night, I’ve loved the malicious child
light, fanciful, vigorous
whose approaching body makes water shiver
along with the sky, the rocks, the houses
the boys, the girls
and the page on which I write.

My patience is a medal upon your lapel.

A golden dust floats all around him. Makes him
distant from me.

His eyes: amidst the thistles, the blackthorns
and vaporous autumn dress.

His hands illuminate objects. Obscuring them more.
Animating them and killing them.

The big toe of his left foot with the ingrown nail
sometimes searches my nostril
sometimes my mouth.
It’s enormous, but then the foot
and leg could follow.

You want to fish in the thawing of snows
in my ponds of rings held in
Ah, to plunge your naked arms
in my beautiful eyes
which two steel rows of black lashes protect
beneath a sky of storm and high pines
wet fisherman covered with blonde scales
in your eyes, my wicker fingers
and pale hands see
the saddest fish in the world
flee from the bank where I crumble my bread.

Aspen. At the summit of yourself, balanced
alone, your rosy heel hangs from the branches
the rising sun. Aspen, your murmur
shivers on my teeth. Your broken fingers
comb the azure and rend the bark
making you soft and fringed with snow
Oh Aspen. Construct this torso
wounded deep but soothed by the plume.
My lips force him
to blossom.

When the sun illumes the heather
on your beautiful calves, your slopes, I go
slowly by the rocks where you spoke to me
blond spahi, on your knees in the light.
A serpent awakes to the voice of the dead.
Beneath my burst foot partridges take flight.
At sunset I will see the seekers of gold
labor beneath the crazed moon.
The breakers of tombs draw straws.

What a shadow at your feet, your shiny shoes!
Your frozen feet in my pools of tears
your carmelite feet, dusty and bare
splashed with sky, your blessed feet
will mark my white shoulders this evening
(forests that the moon fills with wolves)
Oh my fisherman in the shadows of my willows
executioner covered with stars and nails
held up by the white arm of the jetty.

On the green tree, erect — bowing your brow
(animal of love, golden tree with two heads)
above its foliage — hot beast entwined
you hang by a single foot
a slow waltz sounds in the azure
from the harmonica, but do your eyes see
an astonishing dawn from the mizen-mast?
Oh naked fisherman with a subtle heart
come down from the tree, fear
my singing leaves.

Farewell Queen of the Sky, farewell
my Flower of skin, carved in my palm.
Oh my silence, inhabited by a phantom
your eyes, your fingers, silence.
Your pallor. Silence
these waves on the steps again
where your foot always brings the night.
A clear angelus rings beneath its arch.
Farewell sun, escaping from my heart
on an atrocious and nocturnal gait.Go supplely on paths of embers
where treasures of night
are buried beneath your feet.
Peace is with you. In the nettles, the rushes
the blackthorns, the forests
your step sets measures
of darkness.
And each of your feet, each step of jasmine
buries me in a porcelain tomb.
You obscure the world.

The treasures of this night: Ireland and its revolts
muskrats fleeing in the moors, an arch of light
the wine arisen from your stomach
the wedding in the valley
a hanged man swinging
from the apple tree in bloom
and finally, that region
where your breeches
protected by a hawthorn in bloom
are approached from the heart
in the throat.

From all parts, pilgrims descend.
They skirt your haunches where the sun sets
sadly climbing the wooded slopes of your thighs
where even day is dark.

Through grassy moors
under your unbuckled belt
we arrive near him
our mouths dry, our feet
and shoulders beat.
In its radiance, even Time is veiled
with a crepe above
from which the sun, the moon
and the stars, your eyes
can shine.
Time is somber at his feet.
Nothing flowers here
except strange violet flowers
from rough bulbs.
To our heart bring our hands
and to our teeth bring fists.

What is loving you? I am afraid to see this water spill
between my poor fingers. I don’t dare swallow you.
My mouth holds the shape of a vain column.
Lightly it descends in an autumn fog.
I arrive in love like one enters the water.
Palms forward, blinded, my sobs held back
swell with air, your presence in myself
and your presence is heavy, eternal.
I love you.

(from the wisdom of the magnificent man who was Jean Genet, probably best known in more recent times for his beautiful film, Un Chant D’amour, he was also a thief, vagabond, prostitute, novelist, playwright, poet, essayist, and political activist)

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You need to become a pen In the Sun´s hand. We need for the earth to sing Through our pores and eyes. The body will again become restless Until your soul paints all its beauty Upon the sky. Don´t tell me, dear ones, That what Hafiz says is not true, For when the heart tastes its … Read moreGod´s flute

His name was Terry, the thing was 12 inches for sure, thick, and a huge head. He would come to my room, and of course I had to suck it. I worked him for 20 minutes or so and he could cum a nice giser. One day he came over, and we began the same … Read more12 inches for sure